Life During Wartime
by Jack Spheniscidae Enterprises
Summary: New York has fallen. The hope of Patriots dies. The Continental Army endures its darkest hour in a merciless winter. Across the frozen Delaware await the Hessians, and against them General Washington plots. In the shadows of it all is the lone Assassin Connor.


**This was a draft that I began in 2015 and abandoned sometime in 2016. About a third or perhaps even half the story I intended to write, about Connor's thoughts leading up to and during the Battle of Trenton, is here. I have decided to polish up what I did and upload it as a belated acknowledgment of this account's fifth anniversary.**

 **December 10** **th**

It is not just coldness that I feel in the winter air. The initial fervor, the resounding enthusiasm, that I saw in the Patriots as they began their fight for freedom, is dwindling as Commander Washington's army suffers loss after loss. There's all a manner of grim possibilities that may wait in the coming months, perhaps even days.

I think back on the argument that Achilles and I had before I set off on my present course. I fear that I may have spoken too harshly to the old man, that I have acted too rashly. What if in my haste to make the world better, I shall destroy it as he has warned? I should've apologized for my behavior before I departed. True, his words were often unkind, but whenever I stumbled, the old man was always there to help me back up.

But I cannot ignore the other truth. That we are at war. Not just a war between Patriot and Loyalist. Difficult decisions have to be made. The few of us that remain in these colonies, alone against the Templars.

We write often to the many Brotherhoods across the sea, requesting aid. But continually, we are declined and receive only empty praises and encouragements. It will take something great to convince the Assassins in Europe that our fight is not a doomed one. But what can it be?

Washington remains the greatest threat to Templar ambitions. In autumn, when I rode to New York to speak with George Washington, I arrived as the last legs of the Patriot army were retreating from the city. My suspicions that Thomas Hickey wouldn't be the last of their attempts on his life were quickly proven true. All the while, Washington never knew of the threats to life, and good fortune be willing – he never will. By the time I had finished dealing with their agents, Washington had departed before I could partake in conversation with him.

The fire prevented me from following Washington as I intended. My heart froze as I saw the great flames. In that moment as I froze, I was defenseless like a child once more, watching his village burn down around him. But I knew that although our mission was to stop the Templars, we were also here to help the people. So I did what I could to contain the spread of the blaze, and end those who sought to take advantage of the chaos.

In the aftermath, Patriots blamed Loyalists and Loyalists blamed Patriots for the arson. But upon investigating, I found that the New York fire had been sparked by neither. Instead, the true culprits were the Templars, who sought to incite unrest in both sides of the war and create conditions of living within the city that they could manipulate for their gain. One of the Templar agents that I killed, a man named Nathan Hale, had taunted me with his dying breaths that my father and Charles Lee would lead the nation into a new era of greatness, that he regretted that he had but one life to give to the Templars. What sort of man is my father, these Templars he serves, that such fanaticism is inspired from their followers? There's still much work that we must do in New York City, to eradicate the Templar influence that the Great Fire strengthened. Already I have a list of potential allies. But greater matters called to my attention first.

 **December 14** **th**

Today, I met with Benjamin Tallmadge for information. The Patriot who helped me locate and stop Thomas Hickey. He brings me news, much of it foreboding.

The Templars abroad have taken interest in our fight. The arrival of the foreign mercenaries, the Hessian Jaegers, was a move influenced by the Templar Rite in the Holy Roman Empire. They have sent one of their own, a man named Johann Rall, who oversees the most prominent division of Jaeger troops. Tallmadge tells me that Rall is guarded at all times by a Templar bodyguard named Gerhard von Stantten, a vicious killer who's felled many an Assassin upon the tip of his bayonet.

This does not bode well for our continued success. My recruits and I, along with the Assassin Aveline in the southern colonies, have endured this fight against the Templars by barely a whisker. But if the entirety of the world's Templars have united to aid my father's Rite, than how long can we persist? Perhaps the assassination of Rall, and the destruction of his forces, will send our enemies a message. But how can this be accomplished?

Tallmadge tells me that they are encamped in the town of Trenton, across the river from where Washington is encamped. Over one thousand Jaegers. I need to wait. For the right opportunity. Until then, any attempt only risks my life and more importantly the lives of my friends.

Do they know? I wonder often about the Templars and their knowledge regarding the Homestead and the wayward souls who have made our humble community their home. Achilles tells me little of what it was like prior to my arrival, giving me only fleeting glimpses of how it fell into disrepair. I know it was once the heart of the Assassin presence in the colonies. If my father has razed the ground upon which the Homestead stands once before, then surely he can do it again.

Of the rogue Assassin whose aid was imperative to the Templar's triumph, Achilles tells me little. Not even disclosing a name. All he tells me is that he should've taught better. That if only they had listened to one another more closely, all of this might yet have been averted. No good men and women would have been lost because of the mistakes of a few. But his musings were mere foolishness, he warned me. It was folly to ruminate on what could have been. And that was all he would say of the matter.

Yet sometimes, it seems that in his deepest moments of sullenness, ruminations and naught else cloud his mind.

 **December 15** **th**

Tallmadge shall lead me to Washington's camp. He himself plans to meet with Washington, to discuss the possibility of creating a spy ring to infiltrate New York and other colonies occupied by the British. He informed that although he had no interest in becoming one of the Brotherhood, he had picked up quite a few tricks from us, explaining that the Assassins and his proposed spy ring could benefit from one another.

I told him I looked forward to the fruition of his project.

Tallmadge also mentioned a familiar name. A name that sends ire coursing through me.

Charles Lee. If only I can eliminate him. Than perhaps we might stand a chance of winning this fight against the Templars. Tallmadge tells me that Lee has been promoted to the rank of general, and he commands two-thousand men. He marches towards Washington's camp now to reinforce him. I worry that the Templars may use this as another attempt on Washington's life.

Perhaps their meeting is when I should tell Washington the truth. But as I ponder this, I remember Achilles' words. Who'd have more credence in Washington's eyes? A general of the Patriots, or a man who he knows as a mere mercenary?

Conflict boils within me.

 **December 16** **h**

I arrived at Washington's camp today early in the morning. There is a desolate mood shared amongst the soldiers that I have seen, an aura of pessimism that permeates from them all. Many heads I saw were downcast. As I tied down my horse, I overheard a conversation between some men at a fire. They were discussing their impending expirations of their military enlistments, and all seemed eager for that day to arrive. A few soldiers have deserted already, even.

A passing soldier said to me, mistaking my Assassin uniform for a soldier's, that I must've been suicidal to enlist at a time like this. Independence is a nice dream, he said, but a dream's all it is.

I later met with Washington in his tent. Maps and other tactical materials were spread over a table. He was surprised when he saw me.

"Commander." I addressed him first.

"Connor. I hadn't expected to see you again. Not after what happened, with your neck nearly being wrung and all."

"I bear no ill will, Commander." I told him briskly. "I have been meaning to meet with you since summer, but circumstances have delayed me until now."

"You've come to me at an unfortunate time then." Washington shook his head as he said those words. "New York taken by Redcoats, along with many major forts. All of New Jersey and Rhode Island under their control. Many men have been lost, and morale among those who remain has collapsed. We need some sort of bold action. We've gone months without victory. My army must make a stand against the British that can restore hope. We have to show the common folk we fight for that this revolution can succeed…" Washington pointed outside the flaps of his tent towards his troops huddling in front of a fire "…but if we have no soldiers who are willing to fight, we might as well lay down our arms and line up for the gallows now."

"I can help you with restoring the morale of your men. What would you have me do?"

"Ah, if only every man under my command was like you, Connor. Ready to help without any desire for compensation." Washington said rather wistfully as he studied my face. There was some mild suspicion, like he recognized me from somewhere before our first encounter at the Congress meeting. I wonder if he's crossed paths with either of my parents before. "I suppose somewhere to start, Connor, is by speaking with my men. Perhaps if we can draw a general portrait of their discontent, we can find a singular way to alleviate their woes."

"What else?"

"Every retreat has cost us valuable supplies. These men are ill-equipped, under-fed. If we were to better address the holes in their clothing, the growling in their bellies, the men will regain some trust in their leadership."

"What of the men who have already lost it, and fled?"

"I sympathize with their suffering, Connor, for it is no easy road we march upon. But I shall condemn their actions with every fiber of my being. For it is no noble act to put your own liberty above the liberty of all people of the Colonies, the men and women that we fight for."

"All men, Commander?" I asked him. "Even the enslaved Africans? And what of my people, the Mohawk, and the other native tribes? I know that many of those who started this war, even the man who wrote the so-called Declaration of Independence, speak of winning freedom while denying it to others."

The Commander hesitated for some time at this question. He spoke slowly, coldly, like a schoolteacher talking down to an unruly child when he finally found his answer.

"I admit, my family estate at Mount Vernon is dutifully manned by those you'd call enslaved, even as I fight for independence. But I wish for nothing more, Connor, than for all of us to live in harmony. Yet we must first win this war, guarantee basic emancipation for our colonies, before we can begin working for the emancipation of all."

Even he says the same that Sam Adams and the rest of the Patriots do. Yet, Washington marches with his men into battle. Can the rest, those who whittle away on paper and drink their wines in the safety of their homes content to let others die for their ideals, say the same?

"Then the sooner the goals of your revolution are accomplished, the sooner you can prove you speak more than just words. Tell me, what can I do then about these deserters, Commander?"

"I suppose it would be fruitless to try and round up them all. But perhaps the British and their Hessian dogs can be worked to our advantage. They hardly treat civilians in the colonies with respect, rather, they prefer to brew discontent. Find people who have suffered such abuse, Connor. Tell the men where they can enlist. Convince those who can't fight to donate their supplies to the Patriot cause. I have assigned Israel Putnam, who I know you've met, to coordinate the recruiting efforts. You may wish to combine your causes. He's skulking around camp somewhere. You'll know when he's near when you smell the cigars."

Needless to say, it looks like I shall be busy for the next few days. I will depart at noon, to begin my duties.

 **December 19** **th**

After a few days of recruiting new militia, and tracking down supplies, I've returned to Washington's camp. My recruits carry on my work in my absence. When I arrived at the camp, officers were reading aloud to the soldiers wherever they were gathered, from pamphlets in their hands.

I found Washington wandering through the camp, observing his men. I asked him what was being read to the men. He told me that it was written by Thomas Paine, who titled it _The American Crisis_. He hopes that it will serve as a reminder of what is being fought for on the battlefields.

He asked me if I wished for a copy.

After some consideration, I told him where to send it. I'd try to read it when I had a moment of spare time. Something that seems far rarer, even nonexistent, these days. It feels like ages since I've last spoken to Achilles, or any of the others on the Homestead.

Later, I talked to Washington about the arrival of reinforcements.

"I've sent orders to General Gates and Lee to reinforce my army."

"Charles Lee? That man cannot be trusted. It will serve…"

"Connor, I understand that Lee and I have had our differences. The man, to put it bluntly, is no admirer of mine. Even at gunpoint, I'd doubt he'd be convinced to sing my praises. But he is our comrade, nonetheless. We cannot win this war, if we cannot set aside our differences, for our common goal."

I felt tempted to tell him then and there. That Charles Lee's alliance with the Patriots was only a front. That he was actually a member of a secret order that sought to control the world the way they sought fit, and that I was part of another secret order who opposed them.

But it's too soon, I realized. Not when he has so much on his mind. But when Lee arrives, I shall find a way to dispose of him, I swear. End his role in the Templar's grand play for control of the Colonies prematurely. Will I then confront the man behind Charles Lee, afterwards?

My father. From Achilles, and pages of my mother's journal that survived the fire, I see an obscured portrait of a man as if I know so much and yet so little of him.

 **December 20** **th**

I watched as the men in raggedy uniforms, coated in snow, trailed into Washington's camp. But Lee was not amongst them, to my shock. A different General was leading at the front of these troops. I first thought him to be in hiding. After all, the Templars knew who I was. But after scanning the new arrivals thoroughly with my special sight, I found to my disappointment that Lee was nowhere to be found.

So close. He would have come so close to my blades, I had anticipated. But once more, the Templar slipped through my fingers like sand.

I eavesdropped on Washington and the General's conversation as they went through the camp, following behind them, hiding in the foliage and the clusters of shivering soldiers.

"General Sullivan. The sight of these soldiers is a welcome surprise in this uncertain time. But where is General Lee?"

"Commander Washington, I regret to inform you that General Lee was captured by the British while crossing New Jersey."

Captured? No doubt it's another one of his deceptions. Even if he really was captured by unknowing Redcoats, all my father would have to do is snap his fingers, and Lee would be a free man. Wherever Charles Lee is, by now he would be deep in Templar territory. Territory too heavily controlled to safely infiltrate.

"Hmm… regrettable. But regardless of Lee's absence reinforcements have arrived. I estimate we'll be at six-thousand strong when the last man marches in."

"Something the matter, Commander Washington?"

"So many men. But we have much to do. Not just merely a matter of marching to meet General Howe here. There are places on the river, caches of supplies, hospitals that must be guarded in case of a British incursion. Come, let us meet with General Gates and the rest. Let's decide how many men we must allocate to every task."

As they walked off, none the wiser to my presence, I thought about my father. I had heard so much about the Templar, once even seen him in person. Achilles painted for me the picture of a villain who had to die, one who had commanded the wholesale slaughter of the original Colonial Assassins, sparing not even their children. Everyone I had spoken to about him encouraged that I kill him without second thought.

"Do it quickly, Connor, when his time comes. I'll teach you how to approach him, in a manner where even he cannot see you coming. And cut his throat out, so that not even his dying breaths can come out of him as he dies." Achilles had told me after my failed execution. He had noticed me looking at my father's portrait.

"Why Achilles? I know he is the enemy. That he is responsible for all that has happened to you. And he has done much more. But already I have lost one parent. I do not know if I am ready just yet to lose another, by my own hand."

"Your mother was a good woman. What I did to help her, it's one of the few things I can say that I'm still proud of. Your father is anything but the paragon of virtue she was. He's a trickster, Connor. Why do you suppose your mother never told you much about him? Because he hurt her just as much as me, and he didn't even have to break her damn leg or kill her people to do it."

"He's still… my father, Achilles. I saw him at Bridewell Prison. He knows I am an Assassin, but does he know I am his son? Son of the woman he loved. Maybe if he knew that, he would…"

"No, Connor, forget that damned notion. They're daydreams that'll do you harm and no good. Now listen to me, boy. Don't think of Haytham Kenway as your father. Don't think of him as anything but the enemy. You let him say one word to you, make his way into your mind, you'll fall right into his trap. He'll use you, like he used your mother, until you're just another broken toy to be tossed aside and forgotten. He presents himself as a prophet, the Messiah. Perhaps the man is blinded enough by Templar philosophy to even think of himself as such. But remember this, the man is nothing but a serpent crawling upon its belly on the dirt."

"If you insist, Achilles. I have seen what his Templars have done in this war, what they are capable of. Even if he is family, I cannot sit by and let those who would order such suffering escape justice. I will try not to feel anything when his time comes."

I try not to think about that coming day, but I know that as long as I continue to support Washington and the Patriots… fight the Templars as they try to manipulate both sides of the war for their gain, our paths are bound to cross.

 **December 22** **nd**

I spent most of the morning helping around camp. Menial tasks, mostly. No reward, other than hearing the word thanks, and the gratitude was not genuine every time. But there's something fulfilling in the mere act of helping, no matter how tedious or ludicrous a job might be. Even if there's naught to be gained for oneself in the act.

I think of the Homestead.

No matter how far I travel, it will be there. Waiting for my return.

I wonder, will the same be said of my old home? I make it a point to travel to my village often, catch up with Kanen'tó:kon and Clan Mother. I must remain resilient, faithful in the course that I have taken with my life, Achilles reassures me. All too often, he tells me, we don't know for a long time if what we did was worth it.

But I think, we can tell when it is a good thing, can we not? That ought to be determine why something is done. Not what it is worth, or how it can benefit me. It is why I grew to support the Patriot cause, even though I was suspicious of the colonists as a youth. Achilles tell me that thinking would have been admirable in another life, but he has seen far too much, seen too many people go bad or suffer from their altruistic actions. He warns me often.

Washington approached me, as I sat in front of a fire. Winter grew direr with every passing day. Even dressed for winter, I still felt my bones rattle with every gust, my spine shiver. He looked around first, as if he was making sure there were no soldiers in sight.

"Hello, Connor. Do you mind… performing a favor for the Patriots?" He told me, rather apprehensively, like he was uncertain I was right for the task. "It is a mission of a rather confidential nature. For all you have done, you're still very much a stranger to me. Yet, many reputable men hailing from both Congress and the battlefield commend you with praises, regale me with accounts of… valiant acts."

"Praises? I was not aware of such and I do not need to hear them. I merely did what I thought had to be done. Just tell me. What do you want?"

"I've not told many a man this, so I trust you'll respect a vow of confidentiality. I have a spy posted in Trenton, posing as a Tory to gather military information on the Hessians. His name is John Honeyman, and he plans to cross the Delaware tonight to share what he has learned. I've informed a detachment of troops to wait for him on our side, but I'm uncertain about his safety behind enemy lines. I cannot use my own men, but you, Connor… I've corresponded with Israel Putnam, Samuel Adams, and Benjamin Tallmadge: they all assure me this is what you're talented at."

"You wish for me to be his escort?"

"Something of that nature. I shall provide a canoe for you to cross the Delaware in. Find John Honeyman and make sure he makes it to our camp safely. Act covertly… nothing that would alert the Hessians of our plans."

Washington then handed me an envelope.

"Show this if he, or the men who will be waiting for you, have doubts about your intents. I do not often employ… your kind in carrying out errands."

After that, Washington went his own way. I walked to the edge of the Delaware, where a canoe pulled onto the frozen shore was waiting. Brushing bits of frost and slush from the oar, I pushed the canoe into the water and began to row towards the other side. It was a long journey of many hours, made no less difficult by the strong flow of the river's current and the many floes of ice that have formed on its surface.

 **December 23** **rd**

After what I have gone through, in crossing the river to procure Washington's spy, I will not suffer surprise if it is illness that finishes me in lieu of a redcoat's musket. Throughout camp, I see men stricken by the cruel weather. A mere glance at bootless feet shivering upon the frozen ground, skin bloodied and white, and it is impossible to not feel pity.

The spy had told me frustratingly little while I had escorted him. Washington had requested that he receive the intelligence in private, upon Honeyman's arrival. Honeyman had since returned to Trenton, under the cover of a small distraction that Washington had me start, to resume his cover as a Loyalist. Washington had promised to tell me some of what he had learned in return. I made my way to Washington's tent, for the knowledge regarding Trenton that I thought. Anything that would help me better prepare for facing the enemy Templar would be of use.

On my way to the tent, I came across a well-dressed man, whose many layers well-equipped for the winter winds that battered the camp made him stand out in contrast to many of the soldiers. He noticed me heading to Washington's tent.

"If you're in a hurry to see General Washington, I'd recommend you still your haste. I've just seen the man and his mood is far from joyous." He sighed. "'Tis to be expected, in a unhygienic cesspit like this. Ill-fed, ill-equipped, ill-disciplined, just completely ill! A breeding ground for ruin, not a fine army."

I chose not to heed the man's warning, and I pulled down my hood before I opened the flap to Washington's tent. I heard the crunching of something underneath my feet. A crumped ball of paper. Curious, I picked it up. Inscribed upon it was the phrase "Victory or Death."

I then saw Washington. Seated at his disk, pen in hand, but writing nothing. In front of him, scattered about on the desk and fallen onto the floor were more scraps of paper. All with the same phrase written upon it. It was then that he had noticed me.

I think of the dying words of the Templar I slew at Breed's Hill. John Pitcairn. He told me that the Templars would've ensured peaceful compromise between the colonists and the Crown, in time. That my actions had instead brought the land to damnation.

Was all the misery and suffering that I had witnessed in this war a responsibility to be laid at my feet? Would it all have been for the best, had the battle for independence ended then and there upon that hill? I continue to ponder that question. I dread that a part of me even believes it so. Yet I have seen firsthand the plays of the Templar puppeteers. They talk of a greater good, perhaps they believe themselves and their acts valorous, but they care not who they damn in achieving it.

How can a perfect world be if it is built on a foundation of innocent graves? I cannot stand by and make myself blind to such sin. Yet are my ways any different than theirs?

Washington asked me what I thought I was doing, intruding like this when he desired his privacy. So I told him everything I learned. He said little, settling to nod grimly at the end of every other sentence. Perhaps did he not even listen, my words simply indistinct noise passing by. When I finished, I told him to think about what I had said, that I trusted him to do what was right and bid him the night.

What will happen at Trenton? Shall the Patriot Army prevail against all odds? Or shall it be another defeat in a long line of them, and our army and its ideals which grow fainter each day settle for a frozen end? Every step I take I begins to gain an unnatural wait. I desire to hesitate, to still my movements, as if by just stopping I can delay the future. I stopped walking, and there in the quiet of the camp at night, I listened to the sounds around me and let the coldness of the air cut across my cheeks.

I think about Washington. About myself and my mentor. Knowing the responsibility that has been entrusted to us, what may come about if we fail in those duties. Is it worse for Washington, to be at the center of the stage as he is? Caught between those wanting him to fail, between those needing him to be the man already entering into myth. Would I ever be able to bear the weight, if I ever found myself in his boots?

I steel myself, cast these doubts from my mind for the moment. The war cannot, no it will not end here. No matter the outcome of the battle. Washington and the Patriot Army will fight on, as shall I. With this final thought, I pulled on my hood and walked into the night.


End file.
